Twenty years has elapsed
since I first taught English
and doodled my first poem.
White hairs on old heads now
back then were black.
Time, you've killed far more thanthe worst lunatics in history,
yet, we do not hate.
You quarried youth
out of a beauty’s face,
yet, she bore you no grudge.
With the soft killer by,acting all around the clock,
we are a toad put in the cool water
on a live stove, trying to get used to
the rising temperature.
The news of suicidal pilotcrashing his plane into the Alp
set my weak nerve on fire.
The passengers on board knew
too well where they were heading for
in a few minutes of a hell of despair.
We are all in that plane,only the remaining minutes
are expended to the rest our years.
Our hopeless yells may not be so extreme,
but we have many rehearsals in our dreams.
Arise now, escape from your house on fire,
to search for the Garden of Peach Blossoms.
Maybe an opening will lead you there, maybe not.